


Get Down On Your Knees and Tell Me You Love Me

by Mertiya



Category: Rockman | Mega Man - All Media Types, The Protomen
Genre: Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Enemies and Lovers, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, In short a wonderful time is had by all, Just in more of a fascist kind of way, M/M, Mirror Universe, Oral Sex, Power Play, Seduction, Thomas continues to be a martyr, Two old men being stubborn as hell, Unhealthy Relationships, Wily continues to attempt emotional manipulation of both himself and Light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 06:01:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13093914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya
Summary: Albert Wily tries to rescue his sons from the city's dictator.  Things do not go according to plan.





	Get Down On Your Knees and Tell Me You Love Me

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [And If You Change the Working Parts...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/326062) by [lucidSeraph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucidSeraph/pseuds/lucidSeraph). 



> Shout out to Kyros for dragging me into this hellhole in the first place. Well, okay, no, technically I reminded him of the existence of The Hounds in the first place, but he's one who got me started writing fic for it and also helped a lot in terms of my ability to characterize Wily and Light as well as listening to me yell incoherently about what he was doing to me. This is probably darker than my usual fare but good god was it fun to write, and I think it also developed my skills quite a bit. (Do note none of the characters in this is supposed to be a model of fine decision making and please heed the warnings!)
> 
> Further thanks to Zomburai for drawing the thing that made me conceptualize of this idea in the first place, and to Teakwood and lontradiction for also listening to me screech.

            The room is silent and dark except for the bright lights of the city streaming in from the floor-to-ceiling window in front of Wily. The bruise on his cheek aches, but it’s not so much the physical pain that hurts as the fact that it was Protoman who inflicted it—Protoman, with blank face and blanker eyes.

            The door creaks; he hears light, hesitant footsteps, oddly familiar. “Hello, Tom,” Wily says tiredly.

            “Albert.” Light’s voice sounds calm, earnest. “I’m glad you’re here.”

            “Really.” Wily twists sideways. “The welcome I received seemed less than enthusiastic. What have you done to Protoman and Megaman?”

            Light crosses the room and puts a strong hand on Wily’s shoulder, gazing out across the city skyline. “I just helped them understand what I’m trying to do here,” he says gently. “It wasn’t hard. Your work hasn’t changed that much; it was easy enough to rewire their protocols.”

            “You _reprogrammed them_?” A wave of horrified heat washes from Wily’s head to his toes. “Why would you _do_ that?”

            “You programmed them for violence. I just—directed it.”

            “I didn’t program them _for_ anything. I fucking _talked_ to them!”

            Tom doesn’t answer that. Instead, he waves a large hand out at the harsh, bright skyline. “Look at everything I’ve built here. Isn’t it beautiful?”

            It is. The city skyline is incandescent, the lights limning the clean streets beneath like rivers of white fire. And yet Wily still doesn’t understand; it’s not as if this wasn’t his goal as well, back then. “It is,” he agrees, eventually. “But I don’t understand why you—did what you did to get here.”

            The hand on his shoulder clenches very slightly; Light turns both of them until they are facing one another. “This was something I knew I had to do.”

            “But _why_ , Tom? You know I would have helped you.”           

            Light’s face is pale, incandescent, immobile, as if it’s been carved out of marble. “Emily died for a _cause_ , Al,” he says, very gently, and he reaches out a thumb to brush across the top of Wily’s cheekbone. Wily knows he ought to flinch, but the touch is burning heat for a man dying in a frozen wasteland. “You didn’t understand that. You never would have understood that.”

            And yet, lurking behind Tom’s eyes, there’s something, as if he hasn’t quite banished all human emotion from inside himself. “It was for a good cause, Al,” he repeats, infuriatingly.

            “What do you _mean_ it was for a good cause?” Wily bursts out. “Fine, you say Emily died for a reason, I—I’ll believe you, but why did you let _me_ take the blame?”

            Light closes his eyes. “Because,” he says, and his voice is still horribly, inexpressibly gentle, “there needed to be a villain, and you make a much better villain than you do a hero.”

            Such a simple response. Wily feels something clench in his chest tight enough to break, but this time he catches the breathless retort rising to his lips. It won’t work. He cannot reason with Light if he doesn’t understand, and the man is infuriatingly right; he _doesn’t_ understand. It doesn’t follow Tom’s pattern. There’s something missing; a piece he can’t seem to find, slipping through his fingers no matter how he reaches for it. He licks his lips and stays silent, as his erstwhile friend turns to the side to stare out the window across the illuminated city.

            “You did a good job,” Wily says, testing the words, watching the minute tightening of the muscles down Light’s neck and across the top of his back. “It’s almost what I would have done. I simply—didn’t think that was the move you’d make.”

            “If it’s what you would have done then why does that matter?” Light asks, lightly.

            Because I didn’t do it because I thought you _didn’t want me to_ , you _asshole_ , Al thinks but doesn’t say. The thing that strikes him now, in this moment, is the panic he felt the moment he rounded the corner and saw Emily’s body, crimson smeared across the table and down onto the ground. Up until that moment if anyone had asked him what he thought of Light’s lover, he would have said, “a nuisance,” and thought no more about it. Astonishing how the mind re-evaluates when faced with a permanent loss. It was Tom who went and knelt by her body, almost mechanical; it was Al who stood in an agony of painful uncertainty, but—with that much blood—there could be no chance, of course. And yet his heart was still fluttering with something very like hope until he saw Tom close his eyes and shake his head.

            Wily shakes his own head, trying to pull himself back to the present. “You’ve been trying to capture me for years, Tom,” he says. “And now you have. What’s your next move?”

            “You’ve been troublesome for years.” A flicker of something like pain moves swiftly across Light’s face. “If you’d just left the city, I would have let you be.”

            “This city is my home,” Wily returns coldly. “After Joe died, I wouldn’t have done anything more if you had just left me _alone_.”

            “You shouldn’t have gotten him killed, you know,” Light returns.

            “Perhaps you shouldn’t have killed him,” Wily says, his voice only a little tight. It’s not that he ever particularly cared for the boy—Joe was useful, his rage at Light’s actions easy to direct. If he’d been a little more cautious, a little less determined to be a _hero_ , he might not have died. But in some ways, he reminded Wily of Tom, and that was always deeply unsettling. To watch someone so like his old friend fighting tooth and nail against everything they’d ever tried to achieve—to watch them both battling, so certain they had the right of it, was enough to set shivers jittering down his spine. He hadn’t wanted Joe to die.

            “There’s been unrest lately, even after Protoman and Megaman joined me.”

            Wily bites his tongue, keeping back the response that rises to his lips on the subject of Protoman and Megaman _joining_ Light. “How terrible,” he replies dryly.

            “Why did you have to come?” Tom asks suddenly, the question sounding almost as if it’s been wrenched out of him.

            “You took my children, and you didn’t expect me to come after them?” The words fall out before Al knows he’s going to say them and, _fuck_ , his hand is trembling. He can’t be reacting like this in front of Light; he needs to get a handle on himself.

            “In fairness,” Light replies, and the anguish in his voice is hidden again, “your children tried to kill me.” He takes a long, deep breath. “Al,” he says. “I’m sorry. But I need something to show the populace that they’re still safe. And you’re still the best villain I have.”

            Wily’s eyes flick from Light’s eyes to the slight downturn of his mouth to the way one of his hands is curled into a loose fist. “You’re going to kill me,” he says, his voice hushed and seeming to come from very far away.

            “You’re going to be executed, not killed,” Light corrects him, and of course he has to make _Wily_ the subject of that sentence, not himself, because of course he can’t even take that much responsibility. Wily shuts his eyes, mind darting off in two directions at once. Part of him is muttering uselessly about how he can’t believe this, how betrayed he feels, etc, etc. The other part reminds him that if he doesn’t want to die, he’d better figure something out very rapidly. And he doesn’t know how much time he has. Step one, then: stall.

            He turns to the side. “Tom,” he breathes, letting his voice drop about half an octave. “Do you _really_ want to do that?” And it’s very, very easy to reach out and take Light’s hand in his. Easier than he was expecting, actually. Light stares at him with eyes that are dilated from the dimness in the room, and Wily arches an eyebrow at him, raises Light’s hand to his mouth and nips at the tip of Light’s index finger.

            “Al—” Light says warningly, and Wily slowly sucks the finger into his mouth, twisting his tongue around the joint invitingly. He’d forgotten what this felt like; despite the fact that it wasn’t exactly a repeat occurrence, it feels familiar and continues to feel easy. Tom does nothing to stop him as Wily moves in and kisses him. After a moment, he opens his mouth to let Wily in, makes a soft noise as Wily bites gently at his lower lip. A hand on Wily’s shoulder, pushing him insistently downward, and Wily lets himself be pushed down onto his knees on the floor.

            He mouths over the front of Light’s trousers, and Light draws in a sudden, swift breath. A heavy hand falls onto Wily’s hair. The weight is comforting, and the position is comfortable; the carpet is soft beneath his knees. If he shuts his eyes, their surroundings vanish, the years melt away, and they could be pressed together in their lab, half-drunk, with Tom laughing loosely as Al nips gently at his thighs. It only happened once, back then, but it’s something he’s never forgotten.

            And now, Wily’s life is in Light’s hands, and he almost wants to laugh. He still feels drunk, but it’s not on alcohol, it’s just the strange feeling of distance from the scene, as if it’s someone else’s body—a robot’s—that he’s controlling from somewhere beyond a screen. The hands in front of him open Light’s trousers. Al feels a sudden spike of desire that’s his and his alone; his lips part, and he takes Light into his mouth. Sharp sensation spikes through his scalp as Light’s hand tightens in his hair.

            “Good?” Wily murmurs around him, not sure if he’s comprehensible or not.

            Light only makes a breathless soft sound in response, and it shivers through Wily, mixing with the fear and the weird sense he has of being lost in his own head. He holds the base of Light’s shaft in one hand as he slowly draws Light’s erection further into his mouth. Best to take it slow; he’s pretty out of practice.

            “What are we doing, Al?” Tom asks, voice cracking. For the first time, he sounds uncertain. And, Wily notes, a very _different_ usage of his nickname.

            “Something I remember you enjoying?” he suggests, sitting back on his heels gingerly. Something shifts, and he winces. He’s not as young as he once was. “I assume you weren’t so drunk that you’ve forgotten.”

            “No,” Tom says, voice still hoarse. “No, I haven’t forgot— _Al_.” Wily has leaned forward again.

            In some ways, all he wants to do is stay forever in this moment. Forget the past, forget the betrayals, forget the silly, useless daydreams of himself and Tom and Emily together—daydreams he only ever had after Emily was dead, after such dreams had become impossible. Forget the future, forget the looming horror of what Tom is going to _do_ to him, and only have this moment: Tom’s cock round and heavy on his tongue; Tom’s hand tight and possessive in his hair, the tension slowly bleeding out of both of them. It’s like the balance of a ball at the top of a hill; even the slightest movement will be enough to dislodge it, but without that, it becomes indistinguishable from the state of safety when the ball is cupped at the bottom of a valley.

            Tom groans, and the fingers dig into Al’s scalp harder. He’s still got one hand in place, now splayed across Tom’s front, trying to make sure he doesn’t trigger his gag reflex. That’s something that’s easy to fix his attention on. And yet he keeps being drawn away by the trembling of Tom’s thighs beneath his other hand. Tom is trying to stop himself from thrusting into Wily’s mouth, and Wily despairs of ever understanding him. He’s being _gentle_ , as if they’re not doing this on the top floor of the tower that overlooks the city that should have been Wily’s, as if Protoman and Megaman weren’t standing just outside the door, guarding them—guarding Light, imprisoning Wily. And Tom’s acting as if he and Al are equals.

            _Why are you doing this?_ Wily wants to scream. He wants to shake the answers out of him, but he also wants to draw out more of the muffled gasps that Tom is making now. His head bobs up and down as he sucks, and Tom gives a ragged moan above him. The hand in his Wily’s hair clenches and releases, clutches again, sliding downwards. Nails dig into the back of Wily’s neck, and a shudder runs through him. He moans, the noise muffled, and now Tom staggers backwards into the wall. “Al— _Al_ ,” he’s murmuring, and he’s moving, hitching his hips so that they bump against Al’s hand.

            Al’s hard, his trousers so tight it’s almost painful, but there’s nothing he can do about it. Someone else might have found this humiliating, but he just finds it—not enough. He moves his hand up and down Tom’s shaft, hears Tom’s breathing go short and stuttering, and Tom gasps out, “Al, I—I’m going to—”

            Opening his mouth, he concentrates, takes Tom further in, sucks—and Tom gives a harsh, dry shout. Nails dig into Al’s scalp, and he hisses, but manages to swallow around Tom’s climax. They’re frozen like that for a moment, and then Tom is sliding backwards down the wall. “ _God_ , Al.”

            Al can’t quite stop himself from smirking at the breathless tone of Tom’s voice. Better than that, he sounds almost—normal. Less like an avenging god, and more like a man who’s just gotten laid for the first time in too many years. “Can’t we just—” Al starts to say, and then Tom surges forward, grabbing the back of his neck and kissing him, _hard_ , tongue lathing desperately through Al’s mouth. His other hand is tight in Al’s shirt front.

            Step one was stalling. Any further and Wily isn’t going to be able to tell himself this is some sort of clever plan anymore; more worrying, he’s not sure he cares. Tom is warm and alive in his arms, all breathless heat and sweat. “ _Al_ ,” Tom is groaning, and Al knows he should tell him to stop, but then Tom’s hand is on his belt, opening it up, opening up his trousers, and now it’s on his cock, and Al whimpers and gasps as sudden sensation spikes in his groin, his belly.

            He’s embarrassingly close to coming already, but he manages to hold out until Tom puts both hands on his shoulders and pushes him onto the floor, kissing him desperately and sliding a knee up between Al’s thighs for him to thrust against. Stars burst in front of Al’s eyes, and it’s too much, all at once—Tom’s desperation, his insistence, the taste and smell of him overwhelming Al’s senses, and it’s like someone’s reached inside him and tugged. He comes hard, swearing into Tom’s mouth, the world shattering apart in front of him.

            And then he’s lying on the cold floor, with the ugly taste of salt and blood in his mouth. Tom’s still bending over him, and his face is wavering between that unearthly divinity and an almost human expression of contrition. “I don’t want to give you up,” his whispers, and a single tear wells up in his eye.

            “Then don’t,” Al tells him wearily, reaching up to brush the tear away with his thumb, gently cupping Tom’s face with his hand. “You have the power not to. I’m right here. Just—for once in your life—reach out for something _you_ want.”

            “I can’t.” Wily shuts his eyes, hearing his own death spelled out in that tormented whisper. “I don’t want to give you up, Al, but this isn’t about you and me. It’s about something bigger.”

            The floor is hard and cold under Wily’s back. “I’m right here,” he tries again, and there’s a moment when he thinks he’s finally gotten through—a moment when Tom blinks and scrunches up his eyes in the way he used to when confronted with a particularly difficult problem in the lab.

            “I need—” Tom starts, but he never finishes, because someone knocks on the door.

            “Dr. Light, the preparations are completed,” says Protoman’s voice, and Wily flinches at the sound. The light leaves Light’s eyes; he heaves himself up and hastily does up his belt.

            “I’m sorry,” he says, and the distance is back; the wall is back. Wily could scream with frustration.

            He’s two steps towards the door, and Wily’s just managed to pull his own clothing back together, when there’s a set of loud crashes and thumps from outside and then the sound of a shot.

            The door slams back on its hinges as someone hurtles in from outside, someone with Protoman’s quick reflexes but a wholly different appearance. Before Wily can really process the slim silhouette, she’s already across the room and slinging him over her shoulders. “Sorry, boys, _I’m_ taking Dad,” Roll announces, almost cheerfully, before changing direction toward the large window at Light’s back.

            “What—” Oh, she’s not going to slow down, is she? Wily tenses, trying to brace for impact, and the last thing he sees before that is how white Tom’s face has gone as he stares at Roll. Well, good. It looks as if Wily didn’t do so badly on the resemblance, after all.

            He doesn’t have a lot of time to consider this, however, because the next moment they hit the window. Roll twists around to shield him from the flying glass, and for a moment they’re floating, suspended, above that bright city skyline— _his_ bright city skyline, dammit, not Tom’s—and then Wily’s stomach turns over, because they’re falling, and he really hopes that Roll remembers that his bones are not metal-reinforced, unlike hers, because it’s going to be an unpleasant reminder otherwise.

            The wind whips past his face as they accelerate to terminal velocity, and then there’s another loud, rending noise, and the acceleration turns over. So does Wily’s stomach. He clutches at Roll’s shoulder, glancing to the side to see that she has one arm out, her hand digging into the building beside them enough to slow their fall significantly.

            Still, the ground is approaching quite a bit faster than Wily would like; the streetlights may not be moving at terminal velocity anymore, but they’re still _fast_. Sparks fly up where Roll’s hand is in contact with the building, and Wily shuts his eyes. The theory is that if he doesn’t see it, he won’t tense up, and it won’t hurt as much when they hit the ground.

            It sort of works. He’s not tensing at the right time or in the right places, but the impact is still enough to jar him loose; Roll loses her hold on him. Something smacks his shoulder not hard enough to break, but hard enough to bruise. He tumbles sideways, and his elbow and knee hit something as well. “ _Fuck_ ,” he manages to get out, as the world finally stops moving, and he’s able to blink his eyes open, now swimming with tears of pain.

            “Are you all right?” Roll asks. Her hand is smoking gently as she makes her way over to him, but she appears mostly unhurt.

            He tries to get up and staggers backward against the wall with a hiss of pain. “Good timing,” he chokes out. “I’ve been better, but I’m not dead yet.”

            “Good.” She offers him a shoulder. “You’re getting too old for this, Dad,” she tells him, and he coughs up a laugh.

            “I think I was too old for this ten years ago,” he mutters. “But Tom does _not_ know when to quit.”

            Roll gives him a look. “And you do?”

            “Of course I know when to quit,” he replies, tries to take a step, and yelps in breathless pain. His ankle does not want to carry his weight. “Little help here?”

            She puts a shoulder under his. “Is it really worth your time to keep trying to go after Dr. Light?” she asks. “Is he really still…Tom?”

            “Oh, there’s still a lot of Tom left in him,” Wily manages breathlessly through the pain as Roll helps him hobble down the street. “Still the same old maddening spark and utter stubbornness.” And he has more information to work with now—perhaps there _is_ a way to understand him and to— _reach_ him. The back of Al’s neck stings fiercely where Tom’s nails grazed him, and he holds onto that feeling with fierce obstinacy. The reminder, however brief, of that single half hour’s span when he thought he was going to die and simultaneously wondered if the rest of his life counted as living.

            Astonishing how the mind re-evaluates.


End file.
